Dad died just the way he wanted — surrounded by love

Imagine your heart racing like a marathon runner — at around 150 beats per minute, 24 hours a day, five days in a row. It’s a concept that’s difficult for me to wrap my head around, especially since I exercise as hard as I do. Yet, my dad’s heart was racing like this six years ago as he was lying in a hospital bed in Dayton, Ohio.

I received a phone call from my stepmom at the start of spring break. My Dad, who had been diagnosed with pulmonary fibrosis and was just promised a lung transplant from the Cleveland Clinic, had some flu complications and was in the hospital. After a few days of labored breathing and failed interventions, the doctors put him on a ventilator.

My mom and stepdad had just arrived in Vancouver from Illinois to spend the break with me. We were settling into a week filled with dinners at my favorite restaurants, hikes around the Columbia and giving my parents glimpses into my Northwest world. But, upon hearing the news, we changed plans. My mom and stepdad offered to make the long drive back to the Midwest with me (basically the same route they traveled just a few days before), and we set off. I received cell phone updates about my dad along the way.

On the third day, the hospital doors finally swooshed open in Ohio and we met my stepmom in the bright hallway. She smiled a faint smile — but then immediately started sobbing. She told us Dad was not improving.

When I saw my dad, I was struck by the sucking-air sound of the ventilator going in and out and by the movement of his chest heaving up and down. The vent was doing the breathing, but his heart was pounding away underneath his drab hospital gown. I cried, my family cried, we talked to each other and to my dad (who was in a drug-induced sleep), day after day.

When you’re in the middle of a crisis — spending more time awake than asleep — you start to wonder what’s real. The blue monitor above the bed showed his vital signs and became a stark reality. It was the centerpiece of heated discussions and angry comments from my brothers: “Why isn’t the medicine working to slow his heart rate down?” And, “They said his oxygen-saturation level is normal? Yet he can’t breathe on his own?”

We listened to the pulmonologist when he made his daily rounds. I took detailed notes at my stepmom’s request, and wrote down questions to ask the next time. He seemed smug, this specialist, wearing jeans, making snappy statements and then leaving. He said my dad had been sick for a while, then went so far as to say Dad knew how sick he was. Were we all that much in the dark about his illness? A man who never smoked? How could he get this?

The next few days were blurs of emotion. We were all in and out of anger, frustration, exhaustion. I remember drinking bitter hospital coffee in red paper cups; gasping with hope as Dad fluttered his eyes open for a few seconds; watching “The Masters” golf tournament on TV in the sterile waiting room; tearfully discussing the option of removing the ventilator with my stepmom; carefully going through my dad’s closet at home and smelling his shirts. These moments are branded on my brain forever.

Facing the inevitable, the women spent a night huddled together in sleeping bags and blankets in a special waiting room for families. It was like a slumber party: we talked, told stories, tentatively laughed, but didn’t get much sleep. Finally, around 5:30 a.m., a nurse tapped on the door: “It’s time. He only has a few hours left.”

My dad’s heart, valiantly working to make up for stiff, broken lungs, was failing. Phone calls were made. My brothers showed up. My dad’s heart rate had slowed down. It wasn’t in the 150s anymore — it was down around 90, then 80. All of those blue monitor numbers were dropping.

There were 10 of us around my dad, all touching a part of him — his hands, his feet, his forehead, his chest, his arms. What happened next could only be described as orchestrated — by my dad, I’d like to think.

My brother recalled something that happened when we were kids—something that got him into trouble, and how Dad handled it. We all laughed. My other brother remembered something else, and again, we all burst out laughing. I don’t know how long we were standing there laughing, but I remember thinking that we were going to get kicked out of the ICU. Retelling the funny things Dad used to say, and hunched over with laughter and tears, we lost sight of how angry and heartbroken we all were. We only vaguely realized that my dad was gently slipping away. His heartbeat took a nose dive to 20, then to zero. The color drained from his face, turning into a pale yellow. We all fell to a hush.

I will never forget those days, those last moments. I consider the way my dad died as his final gift to us. I envision him now, smiling, perhaps winking. Indeed, he died exactly the way he wanted to — with his family all around him in a circle of pure love and complete joy.